She was born the spring I turned eleven—legs too long, ears too big, stubborn from the start. I raised her from a foal, to turn on a breath, to come when I whistled. And today, she senses my excitement. Her ears flick forward, hooves light on the packed dirt road; she’s eager to get there too.
Behind me, my parents ride in the wagon, the back stacked with sacks of grain, root vegetables, and jars of dried herbs for barter. I tucked a couple of books under a folded blanket—stories I’ve already read and set aside for Lyra. She devoursanything with magics and swordfights, even if she always complains about the heroines falling in love too fast.
The hills rise and fall like slow breaths. This land steadies me.
An hour’s ride, that’s all it takes—but I always feel the shift when we get close.
The fields give way to cobbled lanes. The wildflowers along the ditches are replaced with trimmed hedges and stone markers. Fences grow taller. Trees are more ornamental. Smoke drifts from chimneys, carrying the scent of bread and roasting meats. And then I hear it—cart wheels over stone, the rhythmic clatter echoing between the buildings. The low murmur of voices, laughter, bells.
We’re close now.
Lyra’s house sits just off the main square—a two-story home with flower boxes in every window and a door that never stays closed when she’s home.
I sit straighter in the saddle, a smile tugging at my lips.
Tonight we’ll have dinner with her family, and spend the night. In the morning, Mother will head to the market while Lyra and I slip away to walk the square and listen to fresh town gossip.
As the road bends toward the shops, something pulls at me. The light. The women. The girl who looked like me. The dream rises like pressure behind my ribs. A hum I can’t shake.
I blink and the vision is gone.
Solara snorts and tosses her head—the village rises ahead.
The square is already bustling with late-afternoon chatter. We guide the wagon past the fountain and toward the stables tucked just beyond the bakery. It’s a wide yard, shaded by a long wooden awning, the air thick with the scent of hay, leather, and horse. Dozens of mounts are tied off beneath the beams, tails flicking lazily, some dozing in the golden light.
A stable hand jogs over as I dismount. He’s younger than me,freckles scattered across his nose, straw sticking from his shirt sleeve.
“Need the mare brushed down?” he asks, already reaching for Solara’s reins.
“She bites,” I warn, giving her a pat on the neck. “Only if you assume you’re in charge.”
He grins, undeterred. “Good thing I always ask permission first.”
My parents pull the wagon into the shaded clearing, unhitching the horse while another attendant brings fresh water. The stable hands are quick and practiced, and in moments, our cart is parked and the horses seen to.
I linger for just a breath longer, fingers brushing Solara’s muzzle before I turn toward the square.
The sky is beginning to deepen, streaked with the soft lavender of approaching dusk. Lyra’s house is only a few streets away now.
And still . . . that pull lingers in my chest, quiet and persistent. Like something is waiting.
I shake it off. Just a dream. But gods, it clings like mist—refusing to lift, even in daylight.
We gather our things from the wagon—sacks, bundles, the wrapped parcels—and begin walking toward Lyra’s house. The square hums around us, lanterns being lit, shopkeepers calling their last bargains of the day. Solara’s hooves fade behind us, swallowed by the lull of the stables and the scent of bread drifting from the bakery hearth.
Raised voices grab my attention as we pass through the market. I slow my pace, taking in the exchange.
A sharp voice cuts through the din.
“I won’t pay full price for that,” a gruff older man snaps, hand clenched around a small grain sack.
“These are the prices,” the seller replies, jaw tight. “Same foreveryone.”
The older man snorts. “Won’t matter soon. Not when the clans finally turn on each other.”
I freeze for half a breath.
The seller doesn’t respond right away—just watches the man walk off, muttering. His hands tremble slightly as he restacks the sacks.
